


A Dish Best Served Acrylic

by HugeAlienPie



Series: The Sweater Bet [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Christmas, Future Fic, Multi, Ugly Holiday Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 21:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HugeAlienPie/pseuds/HugeAlienPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles, dude, <em>what are you wearing</em>?" Scott asks with horrified urgency.</p><p>"Retribution, my man," Stiles says easily. "My just deserts."</p><p>"What did you <em>do</em>?" Scott says.</p><p>Stiles slings an arm over Scott's shoulder. "Scotty, what I did is far less important than the fundamental life lesson I forgot in order to do it: your mother is a vengeful goddess, and we should never anger her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dish Best Served Acrylic

When the doorbell rings the Monday before Christmas, Melissa hopes it's Noah, but she's not disappointed when it's Derek.

She's definitely surprised, though.

"Hi, Derek," she says, wrapping her fingers around the edge of the door. "The boys aren't here." She wonders how old they'll be before she stops calling them that.

"I know," he says with a hint of a smile that looks startled out of him. "They're helping Stiles buy me a Christmas present."

Melissa frowns, thinking of something Noah told her. "Stiles already got your Christmas present."

"He got me _a_ Christmas present," Derek says. "Apparently now it's all wrong." Of course. When Stiles bought the gift, Derek was a friend. A boyfriend needs something different. "Anyway, you're the one I wanted to talk to."

Melissa blinks. She hasn't heard about pack trouble. They've gotten the Nemeton on an even keel, and Beacon Hills has calmed down, so she doubts it's life-threatening. But for all they've become allies and almost-friends, Derek's never shown up at her door for a social call, and she's not sure how she feels about him starting now. Still, she can't leave him standing on her porch. "All right," she says, stepping back. "I was about to make tea, if you'd like some."

"Yes, please," Derek says, following her into the kitchen.

Melissa flicks on the kettle and points at a cupboard. "Tea's in there. Take whatever kind you want."

"Impressive collection," Derek says as he hands over a tin of rooibos.

"From the Whittemores, if you can believe it. The kettle, too."

Derek nods, leaning a hip against the counter. "That happened to my dad sometimes, when Mom was alpha."

Melissa stills. Derek talks about his family so rarely, ignoring any suggestion that sharing their stories might lessen his pain. Trying not to spook him, she says jauntily, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Derek smiles and nods, looking grateful that she didn't push.

When the tea's done, Derek carries both mugs to the kitchen table while Melissa finds the package of Oreos that's somehow survived the caloric black hole that is Scott and Isaac. She sets the cookies on the table and takes one out, nibbling the edges while she studies Derek. He looks as close to happy as she's ever seen him. Relaxed. It's at odds with the way he's stood a cookie on edge and is rolling it back and forth in front of him. She schools herself to wait.

Derek takes his hand away from the cookie and wraps it around his mug (it's light blue, says '#1 Mom' in childish scrawl, and once belonged to Claudia Stilinski. Melissa will have to hide it very carefully now that Noah's going to be here more often and more...intrusively) and looks her in the eyes. "How was your date with the sheriff?" Derek asks.

Melissa gapes. She takes a breath and releases it, startled. Derek Hale is the most small-talk-averse person she knows. If he's asking about her date, that's what he's here to talk about. But... _why_?

But, to the question: Melissa smiles, thinking of the diner, of the Christmas market afterward, of coming back to the house--the laughing whispers, "The boys are gone all night"--the sheer, devious delight of being a grown woman sneaking a lover out in the still hours before dawn. Melissa smiles at Derek, helpless to describe the feelings running through her. He smiles back, and she realizes she doesn't have to describe.

It's funny, but Melissa thinks she's been in love with the Stilinskis, one way or another, for years. Loved all three of them, after a fashion, but especially the men, brilliant and broken and unlike anyone else she's met. Derek's in a position to understand that like no one else can, and suddenly Melissa's delighted by the possibility of them being _friends_. She smiles dreamily, imaging awkward family dinners and sitting around gossiping while Stiles and Noah fall asleep in front of the Superbowl. Derek stares at her, bemused. Probably because she hasn't answered his question. She clears here throat. "It was perfect," she says and knows he's listening to her heartbeat. Knows there's no lie to hear. She should let him keep talking, but the primal gossiping urge is hard to resist. "What about you? Did Stiles really take you to Blackstone?"

Derek's gaze turns wistful. "I dreamed about their chilled raspberry soup for _days_ ," he says.

She smiles, but a thought occurs to her, and she leans forward. "I hope you appreciate how much it means that Stiles would take you there. Claudia loved places like that, and after she died, Noah and Stiles gave them up, because the reminder was too painful." She grimaces. "Well, that and they're two guys who love cheeseburgers too much." Melissa studies Derek, the hunch of his shoulders, the weary downward cast of his gaze. "You didn't know, did you?" she asks softly.

Derek shakes his head and looks angry for a second, but when he looks up again, he seems less grim. "Thank you." He sips his tea, and when he puts his mug down again he's all business. "Did the sheriff tell you about the bet?"

Melissa taps her index finger against the tabletop. "I had fifty bucks in that pool, buster, and I'm a little disappointed you and Stiles couldn't hold out til spring break. Who won?"

Derek huffs and says, " _Scott_ ," the _who else?_ heavily implied. Then he does what Stiles calls his 'judgy eyebrows' and adds, "Chris Argent won the one on you and the sheriff."

Melissa presses her lips together. "Kira looked me in the eye and swore there wasn't one on us!" Even after everything they've endured, Melissa sometimes mistakenly thinks of these kids as _kids_ \--capable of lying, but generally disinclined to. But they've been through so much; some of them don't remember, anymore, how to tell the truth.

Derek snorts, giving his cookie a vicious spin. "Of course there was--she and Danny have been maintaining it for two years." He pushes tea and cookie aside and leans forward, staring at her with an intensity usually reserved for life-or-death situations. "I'm talking about the bet--or, dare, I guess--Stiles and the sheriff made. About us."

And it's funny: Melissa's a grown woman with a son who is, arguably, mostly an adult, himself. She's survived a horrific marriage and her share of not-half-bad relationships of varying seriousness. And yet the idea that her date with Noah grew out of some _dare_ and not genuine desire makes her want to claw someone's eyes out.

Her rage must show in her face, because Derek grabs her hand and says, hurriedly, "They didn't do anything they didn't want to. They were...egging each other on?" He frowns. "In a way I'm grateful. Stiles and I could've taken at least 'til he graduated to get our act together. I doubt things were moving much faster for you and the sheriff." Melissa tilts her head, grudgingly conceding. "But I don't like feeling like a _prize_." His gaze turns hard. "I got more than enough of that for a lifetime from Kate and Jennifer." He looks rueful. "Especially considering what we were weighed against."

Melissa takes another cookie from the package and considers him. "I'm almost afraid to ask."

"Mrs. Milligan's Christmas sweaters."

Melissa snickers. She can't help it; it's appalling. "You're right," she tells Derek, "it can't stand." She taps her Oreo against the lip of her mug. Then she beams. "Have you heard of Maurine's?"

*

Melissa keeps her attention on Derek as he walks into Maurine's. He moves with a grace and assurance that's mesmerizing to watch, scanning subtly for possible threats. He probably doesn't realize he does it.

He freezes, cocking his head and scowling. He looks like a confused German Shepherd, and Melissa bites her tongue to fight laughter. Derek turns in horror. "What _is_ this place?"

Maurine's is an upscale consignment shop in Beacon City that usually specializes in women's clothes and home décor. For ten months out of every year, it's a classy place. But the owner, Justine (she named the store after her grandmother) has an ugly holiday sweater fetish. From January to October, she travels the county and trawls the Internet to find particularly hideous gems. Then, from November 1 until December 31, she sells them proudly from racks that take over the entire back half of the store.

The young sales clerk sidles up to Melissa. "His first time here?" she asks. Melissa grins and nods. "Everyone gets a kind of _look_ on their face the first time they see the sweaters."

"My god, Melissa, _look_ ," Derek calls in a mix of awe and horror.

The clerk grins. "They usually say that, too."

Melissa wades into the knitted morass. It's time to see what kind of damage they can do.

*

They find the perfect sweater for Noah in five minutes. For a minute they can only stare at it where it lies draped over the top of the rack. "I feel dizzy," Derek says, faintly.

Melissa nods. She's not sure where to look; when she tries to rest her eyes on one spot, her stomach rebels. "Agreed," she says. "I'm sold."

Finding something for Stiles takes considerably longer. Melissa feels a faint niggle of worry; there are only two racks left, and, though she hates to admit it, she's reaching her limit for tasteless holiday wear. Derek continues riffling through sweaters with the same focus he brings to the peril-of-the-week. He seems determined to look at every damned sweater in the place, if that's what it takes. When his phone rings, Melissa's glad of the reprieve.

"Scott," he says as he picks up. Melissa perks up, though a slight frisson of fear run through her until Derek's expression cycles through confusion, irritation, and exasperation without landing on worry or terror. "What do you mean, he's glued to it _again_?"

Melissa covers her laugh with a cough, then mouths, "Stiles?"

Derek rolls his eyes. "Danny," he mouths back. "Physical or magical glue?" He rolls his eyes again, harder, and shoots her an apologetic glance. Melissa shoos him, and he stalks toward the back of the store. She hears him say, "Call Stiles. No, Scott, that's why you _have_ an emissary," before he's out of hearing range.

She _does_ hear the wistful sigh behind her and turns to see the clerk leaning against the rack, openly ogling Derek's retreat. "You could bounce a quarter off that ass," she says. Melissa wonders, idly, if Stiles's tried that, before the girl is blushing and stammering a mangled apology. "Not that--I mean--I didn't mean to _objectify_ \--I'm sure he's a lovely person, and that you two are, um, _crap_." She stares at Melissa in horror, torn between staying to apologize further and fleeing back to the front of the store.

Melissa and Derek seem to realize at the same moment the mistake that's been made, because she hears the clattering of racks being clacked into and looks up to see Derek right himself while staring in their direction, eyes wide.

On one hand, Melissa's delighted. She's an attractive woman; she could land someone as objectively good-looking as Derek. On the other hand-- _Derek._ She just doesn't think of him that way. She smiles wickedly. "Who, him?" she says. "Oh, no; that's my son-in-law."

And _that_ is the tremendous clatter of a werewolf knocking over a rack of sweaters.

Melissa and the clerk rush to Derek's side, the clerk apologizing profusely though it's obviously not her fault. Derek brushes aside their offers of help to right himself, leaping to his feet with his usual supernatural grace and glaring the whole time at Melissa, who beams back with complete lack of concern. "You're terrible," he mutters.

"You're _welcome_ ," she replies sunnily.

Derek turns to begin helping right the sweaters he's upended. Then he freezes, shouts triumphantly, and swoops down, lifting the shining beacon of tastelessness on top of the pile. He lifts it like a trophy, and Melissa nods. "Perfect."

They restore the rack and its contents, pay for their sweaters, and end, as every successful shopping trip should, with lunch. They don't bring up the son-in-law crack, but it hasn't escaped Melissa's notice that Derek never corrected her or made any comment about how ridiculous she was for saying it.

*

Noah and Melissa both work Christmas Eve, and Derek has a lot of prep to do for the Christmas Day gathering, so Derek, Melissa, and their gift bag are on the Stilinski porch at 10:00 a.m. Christmas Eve Day. Stiles opens the door in his pajamas, to no one's surprise. When he sees Derek, his face lights up in delight. When his gaze moves to Melissa, his expression turns to surprise, then confusion, and then, ultimately, terror. As it should. "Um. Hi, there. Here's a combination I never thought would fill me with such dread."

"Good morning, sweetie," Melissa says with a bright (and only slightly evil) smile. "Can we come in?"

"Uh, yeah. Sure." Dragging his hair through sleep-wild hair, Stiles stands aside. "Dad!" he hollers into the house, "Melissa and Derek are here. They look evil."

Noah's in the living room, one hand on his hip, the other clutching his coffee mug. He looks amused. That won't last long. "Morning," he says affably, taking a sip. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please," Melissa says, settling on the couch. Derek drops beside her, and they stare at the Stilinski men with matching expressions of pleasant blankness. This is war, and they're committed to ceding as little ground as possible.

Noah looks at Derek, and Derek stares him right in the eyes. "I'll take a beer, if you have one."

Melissa strangles a gasp, and Stiles looks seconds from collapse. At 10 a.m. on a Thursday, that request from your under-21 son's werewolf boyfriend, who is also your deputy-- _who can't even feel the effects of alcohol_ \--well, the gauntlet couldn't be more clearly thrown. The smile slides off Noah's face. He clears his throat. "Yeah, okay. Stiles?"

"Right behind ya," Stiles yelps, rushing toward the kitchen so quickly his socked feet catch on the carpet. Melissa holds up her hand, and Derek high-fives her with quiet amusement.

Noah caresses Melissa's hand as he gives her the mug. She smiles but doesn't acknowledge the touch, no matter how much her skin tingles from the contact. Noah's shoulders slump, and he sits in the armchair beside Melissa with the air of a man who's happy to endure his punishment if someone will tell him what he's done to deserve it.

Stiles, holding Derek's beer in front of him like a sword, considers the seating configuration intently. Melissa and Derek arranged themselves on the couch so Stiles and Noah wouldn't fit. But Stiles, after sizing them up, sets the bottle on the end table and, holding Melissa's gaze defiantly, drapes himself across Derek's lap. _Well played, kiddo_ , Melissa thinks. Derek lifts Stiles a few inches and repositions him a bit more sideways.

Melissa reaches into the bag and pulls out the packages. "So!" she says brightly. "We brought Christmas presents."

"But... _tomorrow's_ Christmas," Stiles objects. "And we'll see you at the pack gathering." He looks between Derek and Melissa, worry clouding his gaze. "Won't we?"

"Of course," Melissa says, "but these are special gifts that you'll need for the party, so you should have them now." She glances at Derek, who jerks his chin toward Noah. She nods and turns, holding out Noah's gift. "You first, sweetie."

Noah accepts the package with an appropriate level of trepidation. He looks at Stiles, but Stiles shrugs helplessly, equally lost. Noah carefully tears the wrapping paper. Then he just...stares.

Noah's sweater is a monstrosity in the truest sense of the word. Jaggedly cut pieces of six (seven? It's hard to count in the sleeves) Christmas sweaters, already eyesores, have been inexpertly sewn together to create a Frankenstein's monster of holiday knitwear. Tiny white reindeer leap dizzyingly on a navy blue field. Half of Santa's face leers and winks. Elves in pointy hats sing joyous carols--or do malevolent, pointy-headed aliens open their mouths to swallow human souls? It's hard to know where to look.

" _Wow_ ," Stiles murmurs. He eyes the package in his own lap with increased suspicion.

Noah stares at the sweater, then lowers it to his lap and pastes on the fakest smile Melissa's ever seen. "Thank you, Melissa," he says, "it's lovely."

Melissa narrows her eyes. It's not a bad move, generally speaking, to show gratitude for a gift, no matter how hideous. But she's _clearly_ messing with him, and the fact that Noah's not pushing back points to a deeper issue they may need to revisit later. For now she smiles, pats Noah's hand, and turns to Stiles. "Your turn!"

Stiles looks from Derek to Melissa as though calculating his odds of escaping his fate. Derek levels a flat look at him, and he sighs and rips into the paper.

Stiles's sweater may be uglier than Noah's. For starters, it's lime green. Lime green with a large white rectangle bearing the word 'JOY!' _In gold garland._ Inside the 'O' of 'JOY' is an applique Christmas ornament in bright yellow, orange, and purple. Each prong of the 'Y' bears a tiny red light bulb that blinks. Silver garland frames the white rectangle, creating what looks like the world's most garish holiday wall hanging.

Stiles's mouth opens a time or two. He tilts his head from side to side, but Melissa tried that too, and the view doesn't get better. He lowers the sweater and stares solemnly at first Derek, then Melissa. "Melissa, Derek," he says, voice low with respect and awe, "you are not prizes to be won. You are your own beings, brilliant, beautiful, and _terrifying._ I promise I'll never forget that again."

Apparently that's all the apology Derek needs. His arms wrap tightly around Stiles's waist and presses his face against Stiles's chest. Stiles tangles a hand in Derek's hair and smiles.

"Thank you, sweetie," Melissa says. She sweeps up the wrapping paper and stuffs it in the gift bag. "Okay, we're heading out. We'll see you tomorrow. In your beautiful new sweaters!" Derek dumps Stiles off his lap, but he manages to get his feet under him before his ass hits the floor. He glares at Derek, who lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. Melissa stands, dropping a kiss to Noah's lips as he nods in resigned understanding.

She sneaks a look back before she leaves the house. Noah and Stiles stand in front of the couch, sweaters in hand, staring each other down in a war of silent recrimination. She smiles as she closes the door behind her.

On the porch, Derek stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and peers at the sky for no reason Melissa can fathom. But she understands how he feels. "Coffee?" she asks.

He smiles. "Sure." He holds his elbow away from his body; she tucks her hand into the crook and leads them down the steps.

*

Melissa's in the living room, but she knows the moment Stiles and Noah arrive, because a raucous chorus of greetings erupts in the kitchen.

She _also_ knows the moment they take off their coats, because silence, complete and absolute, falls in the kitchen. She sneaks into the room to watch the scene unfold. Noah looks like he wants the floor to swallow him up, while Stiles seems almost proud of how awful he looks.

"That's...quite a sweater, Sheriff," Ethan ventures bravely. "Is it new?"

"Yes, Ethan, it is," Noah says tersely. Stiles giggles.

"Stiles, dude, _what are you wearing_?" Scott asks with horrified urgency.

"Retribution, my man," Stiles says easily. "My just deserts."

"What did you _do_?" Scott says. ("So I never do it," he does not say.)

Stiles slings an arm over Scott's shoulder. "Scotty, what I did is far less important than the fundamental life lesson I forgot in order to do it: your mother is a vengeful goddess, and we should _never_ anger her."

Scott blinks at him. "Well, _yeah_."

Melissa snickers and catches Derek's eye. He nods once before swooping in, shouldering Scott out of the way to give Stiles a more personal welcome. Melissa leans against the door jamb, and Noah wanders over, sliding his arm around her waist. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, then grins. "You two are pleased with yourselves, aren't you?"

She smiles. He gets it now. "You have no idea."

*

By 2:00, epic amounts of food have been consumed, and a blanket of lassitude and post-lunch napping lays thickly over the pack. Melissa even hears a snore or two. Noah's wedged into the corner of one of the couches, and Melissa curls up against him. She knows he's feeling as drowsy as anyone, but so long as he's awake, he's alert, watchful. It's cop instinct; he's done it for decades, and now Derek does it, too. Usually. Right now he's curled in the window seat, still wearing his Burger King crown and too engrossed in Stiles to pay attention to anything else.

Behind her, Noah flinches and groans. "Oh, no," he whispers, "Derek is dating Stiles!"

Melissa's gaze flies to Derek, who freezes and looks toward them, his expression a heart-wrenching mess of confusion and hurt. Melissa slaps his arm. "Noah! Derek's a good man."

Noah nods. "Yeah, he is _now_." He sighs and slumps. "Stiles is going to _ruin_ him."

The werewolves burst out laughing, and the humans demand to know what they've missed. Stiles shakes Derek's arm and seems to be trying to _whine_ the secret out of him. Derek shakes his head and kisses Stiles quiet.

"Damn, that is one ugly sweater," Noah says, gaze on Stiles. "Remind me not to make you and Derek mad at the same time again."

"Best not make us mad _at all_ ," Melissa returns. "And be grateful we found comfortable sweaters. Mrs. Milligan's are _scratchy_." Noah laughs, kisses the top of her head, buries his nose in her hair.

Melissa's gaze wanders around the room. Yeah, maybe Stiles will ruin Derek. Maybe Derek will ruin him back. But after everything they've survived, singly and together, the ways they're ruined make them who they are. What they are. Their strongest connections lie in the places their jagged edges have been sewn together. It's not what Melissa anticipated her life looking like, but it's everything she wants, now.

**Author's Note:**

> There we go, folks! That's the series. Thanks for flying [Huge Alien Pieways](<a%20href=) and for reading, commenting, and kudoing.


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